


Only Human

by SeithSpinner



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Asshole John, F/M, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Other, relationship dynamics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-09
Updated: 2013-06-09
Packaged: 2017-12-14 10:04:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/835679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeithSpinner/pseuds/SeithSpinner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John returns home early from holiday to find Sherlock intimately engaged with someone in their flat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only Human

**Author's Note:**

> These tears are real, I'm jealousy, I'm spite and hate, To the core I'm mean.  
> I'm nearly human. Look at me I'm almost a human being.  
> I'm just like you, Better than he, To hell with they.  
> I'm almost me,I'm nearly human. Pity me I'm almost a human being. - Voltaire.

John was suspicious that he heard voices and music when he entered the street door of 221 Baker Street. He was concerned as he climbed the stairs, given that the music was Goth rock, and he was beginning to doubt his own sanity, since he thought he had heard Sherlock singing along.. 

It's true; he was home an entire two days earlier than he had planned, so perhaps this is how it always was when he made short trips out of London. His flat-mate, brilliant and wild, would put on The Cure and sing in front of the mirror. He wasn't sure he could handle that, but he'd learn to try.

He bypassed the front door and headed straight to his room, heaving the suitcase heavily on the bed as the sounds in the sitting room quieted. Sherlock must've heard him come in, and ceased caterwauling. The consulting doctor plodded back down the stairs, stopping off at the loo. Suddenly, a shower felt like the best idea in the world, but he felt he needed to explain his early arrival beforehand. He left the tap on to heat up before easing his way toward the sitting room. It was near the kitchen table that he first heard it, a soft, wet, sound that any red-blooded male knows. He stopped short, listening intently. From this angle he could see the whole of the room reflected in the mirror over the mantle.

The detective was practically poured into the sofa, his groin slid low and toward the front edge, thighs spread wide to accommodate the figure that was knelt between them. Spiky, curled, hair obscured their face and hands as they dutifully laved and sucked at the un-obscured member protruding from bespoke slacks. "MMH!" they attempted to say, mouth otherwise occupied.

"Oh... don't worry, it's just John. By the sound of it he’s in the shower, we have time." There was a dismissive wave, but his voice was heavy and dark. "But do that again, it felt fantastic." 

"Mmmmmmmh" was the resolute response. 

"Oh.... god yes..." Sherlock groaned, his eyes slipping shut. His long neck arched gracefully as his head fell back, and his long fingers laced into spiky hair, to still it as he bucked his hips in a slow roll. "Close...h- harder…"

John licked his lips, before turning on his heel and exiting the flat at breakneck speed. John Watson, Captain in the RAMC, Seer of Far Worse Things in His Time He'll Have You Know, made it nearly halfway to the Tesco before realizing he had left the hot water on, and could not be bothered to turn back.

It took an incredibly leisurely walk around the Tesco, a row with the chip and pin machine, a scalding cuppa from the corner shop, and half of the long route home before John fished his mobile from his pocket and tapped out a text: **_Is it all clear? – JW._**

****

* * *

 

The detective slid the mobile from the night stand, earning a glare of ire. "You're lovely when you're angry, and I can do both, you know. He’s rather touchy about these things." That or rather a twist of the fingers on his free hand earned him a contented moan.

**_Not as such. - SH_ **

John frowned at the phone, thinking that it was bloody impossible that someone had been going at it for quite that long. His thumbs jabbed at the keys angrily as he texted back:  ** _Not used to walking in on something like that, Sherlock. A bit not good. - JW_**

**_Sock on the doorknob. Universal signal. - SH_ **

**_I came through the kitchen. - JW._**  

**_Always something. - SH_ **

There was a long pause, and no reply. But the woman was bucking at an ever-increasing pace beneath his touch, moaning loudly into a pillow that she had dragged over her face.

**_It’s only sex. Which I am still having. Flat clear in one hour. - SH_ **

**_Sod off. - JW_ **

Sherlock angrily discarded the phone, before crawling up the shaking body of his lover and entangling himself in her arms. If he had to send her home early, he would at least send her away happy.

 

* * *

 

 

John had time for dinner. A long dinner, in which he was rude to the wait-staff twice, glared ominously at his phone, broke a pepper shaker, and frowned at a passer-by.

**_She has gone home. – SH._ **

The dejected, rude, blonde sighed loudly, and practically stomped his way back to the flat with his armful of shopping and his stomach oddly full of pasta. There, hanging from the door knob was one of Sherlock’s argyle socks. He whipped the thing free, and shouldered the door open, ignoring the living room and heading straight for the kitchen to unload the bags.

Sherlock sat idly in his chair. John could not help but notice that he was not only dressed, but fully decked to the nines, as though he was prepared to head out for a case at any moment. The violin bow was tapping on his shoe, the instrument itself half-heartedly cradled against his chin.

John dutifully unpacked and put away every bit of the shopping, even stopping to rinse his RAMC mug and setting a kettle on before he finally turned toward his flat-mate and barked “So, what was all that about, then?”

Dark curls tipped up, slowly, followed by opal eyes. The bow slowly wilted toward the side-table, and the violin was tucked neatly in its case. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be more _specific_.” The ice in that tone, the sheer chill, should have warned John that he was straying into danger, but his own temper blinded him.

“ _More specific_? I come back from the bloody holiday from hell to find you getting knobbed, Sherlock. I’m not going to stand here and talk about shit weather and bad traffic while you come down someone’s bloody throat! I sit on that sofa!” His arms flapped at his sides like useless wings, the kettle began to crackle.

“If by ‘sit on’ you mean that you engage in the _same_ act you are n- “ The detective stood, suddenly, and stalked around the room, clearly at his wits end. ”Had I known you would be coming home two days early I-“

“Even when you knew I was here the two of you kept at it-“ John was shouting, the kettle was bubbling.

“I heard the shower running, I had no indication that you would sneak in here and use the damned mirror to spy on me!” Sherlock had closed half the gap between them and was bellowing, using his full height and the mammoth power of his voice to seem as intimidating as possible. “If you knew how long it’s been since-“

“Spy on you? Christ, like I’m some kind of letch? I came in to apologize for interrupting since I heard music and then – and by the way just how old was she, because-“ The look arrested John, instantly. The kettle whistled. Sherlock seemed to visibly shrink in front of him, but it was like watching a star collapse in on itself.

“What. Did. You. Just. Say. To. Me?’ If the towering rage was a warning, it warned of this. This was the quiet Mycroft employed. This was the deadly, serpentine, silence of missing bodies, and government cover-ups.

“I’m … so sorry, Sherlock. I…” John backed away two steps, bumping into the cabinet. The room suddenly felt smaller than the cabin of a car, and the damned kettle screeched. “I just- the whole thing caught me by surprise and-“

“Am I not allowed the same use of this flat as you? Is it disgusting to you that I bring someone here for the same purposes that you, so often, do? I am _human_ , John. As much as everyone else denies it, as much as it ruins their very neatly constructed perception of me, I am not made of _metal_ _._ ”

Before John could respond, the greatcoat was swirling, and Sherlock was thudding down the stairs toward the street. John slid slowly into one of the kitchen chairs and rested his head on the table. The kettle shut itself off, its whistle slowly fading.


End file.
